


Rosy Cheeks / Naughty Little Elf / Come Sit on My Lap

by HipHopAnonymous



Series: Brother Mine [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brother Feels, Brothers, Christmas, Corporal Punishment, Family Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, Non-Consensual Spanking, Over the Knee, Sherlock is a Brat, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HipHopAnonymous/pseuds/HipHopAnonymous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Sherlock refuses to take Christmas photographs with Mycroft. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Written for the 12 Days of Christmas Challenge over at Spanking-World. The prompt for today was "Come sit on my lap."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rosy Cheeks / Naughty Little Elf / Come Sit on My Lap

Sherlock Holmes, age seven, stood glowering at his brother. His arms were crossed, lips downturned in a petulant little pout, and eyebrows furrowed. Mycroft Holmes, age fourteen, sat in a posh, white cushioned chair positioned just next to an exorbitantly large, fully decorated Christmas tree. As a young teenager, Mycroft felt a bit ridiculous in his current ensemble. He was completely decked out in a Santa Suit – boots, hat, and beard included. He was already at that age where such a thing was rather humiliating, but he had never been able to refuse his mother, who had been simply thrilled by the idea, and so he had decided to grin and bear it for her sake.

Sherlock was dressed to match, covered from head to foot in a stereotypically green elf costume. Quite frankly, Mycroft was shocked the nanny had gotten him to put it on. On the other hand, she had never been above using bribes as a means of persuasion with the Holmes children.

The nanny had obviously neglected to tell Sherlock that his brother would be a part of this particular experience, and that was, quite clearly, where the stubborn little brat was choosing to draw the line.

“For the last time, Sherlock,” Mycroft said through gritted teeth, “Come sit on my lap.”

Sherlock huffed. “Never.”

The photographer their mother had hired gave Mycroft an exasperated look before turning to the younger boy and flashing a broad, phony smile.

“Come on, sweetheart. For me, ok? I just need to take a couple pictures of you and your brother, that’s all! Be a good boy, all right? Don’t forget that Santa’s watching you!”

Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed deeply. It was the entirely wrong approach, and the poor woman was in for it in three, two, one …

“I’m not stupid, you know,” Sherlock snapped with a dismissive snort. “Santa isn’t real. Unless my fat brother in that ugly costume counts.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft used a warning tone. “Just get over here and let the nice lady take some photographs. It will make mummy very happy.”

“I don’t care!” Sherlock stamped is foot, immediately looking a bit embarrassed by his own childishness. He straightened himself up and gave the photographer a disapproving once over. “The roots in your hair are showing, that perfume you’re wearing is too strong, and your breasts aren’t real.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft jumped to his feet, glaring at his younger brother. He turned to the photographer who stood gaping in shock at the little boy. “Would you give us a moment, please?”

“O-of course!” she scurried hastily from the room.

Mycroft rubbed his temples – an act that made him appear far older than his true age. “Sherlock, you can’t talk to people like that. I’ve told you before – ”

“I’m not going to sit on your lap in these stupid costumes and let that woman take – ” he balled his fists and practically shook, “ – photographic evidence!” For Sherlock, it was as good as having a full out temper tantrum.

“Mummy will think it’s just _precious_ ,” Mycroft grimaced, but shrugged, resigned and determined to see this through. “Come on, Sherlock. You can either come sit on my lap for the photographs _now_ , or I can take you across it first, and _then_ you can sit for the photos. Your choice, little brother, but I can tell you which choice will be more comfortable.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t.” He narrowed his eyes, studying his brother. Suddenly, his eyes widened, “You _would_!”

Just as he turned to flee, Mycroft caught him by the wrist. Sherlock dug his heels into the carpet, twisting and squirming in his brother’s firm grip.

“Mycroft, stop! I-I’ll scream for mummy! That photographer lady will hear me!”

Mycroft chuckled as he dragged Sherlock back to the chair and sat down. “No, you won’t scream. You aren’t the only observant one in this house, Sherlock,” Mycroft chided, depositing his little brother face down across his knees. “I know very well you wouldn’t want to risk anyone seeing you getting your bottom smacked.” Determined to fully quash Sherlock’s stubbornness on the issue of Christmas photographs, Mycroft hooked his fingers into the elastic waistband of the absurdly green costume trousers. Much to Sherlock’s chagrin, he pulled them, along with Sherlock’s pants, down his thighs. “ _Especially_ not with your pants pulled down.”

Before Sherlock could wriggle, kick, or protest, Mycroft landed two sharp smacks to his small, pale bottom. Sherlock gasped out, his mouth forming a surprised little _oh!_ before he was able to steel himself with stoicism. Mycroft imagined what a ridiculous sight the two of them must make: Santa Claus taking a naughty little elf across his knee for a spanking. It was necessary, though. He had calculated the likelihood of Sherlock’s cooperation, and determined that he had no other choice. Mycroft was simply _not_ going to let the little brat ruin mummy’s Christmas.

Mycroft spanked his brother rapidly with crisp smacks that only skimmed the surface of the tender skin; working to build up an unpleasant and unbearable, but also superficial sting. Compared to his brother’s small backside, his hand was rather large, allowing him to easily cover plenty of surface area with each spank.

He alternated between cheeks, moving from top to bottom in what he knew Sherlock would consider a predictable pattern. The predictability mattered not, however, for soon enough Sherlock had clearly reached his spanking threshold, and began to writhe and sniffle. His bottom glowed with a deep, pink blush and, deciding that his brother had had enough, Mycroft stopped. He wanted to avoid lasting damage, and he certainly didn’t want Sherlock to cry and risk ruining the photographs. He guided his now meek and docile brother up off his lap and helped adjust the costume.

“Ready for those photographs now?”

Sherlock nodded, his cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. Mycroft felt a twinge of regret for resorting to such a banal form of _persuasion_ , but to his credit, Sherlock was quiet and cooperative through the entire session. He followed the photographer’s instructions to the letter, with only a bit of understandable squirming whenever the pressure to his freshly punished backside got to be too much.

*****

“Oh, Mrs. Holmes, these photos are _darling_!”

Holiday party guests gushed over the large, framed prints of Mycroft and Sherlock in costume. Mycroft gave them patient smiles, humbly dipping his head at the embarrassing compliments.

“Oh my,” an older woman cooed. “Just look how rosy little Sherlock’s cheeks are! Adorable!”

Mycroft caught his little brother rolling his eyes, and leaned over to whisper in his ear, “Those weren’t the only rosy cheeks that day, were they?”

Sherlock sucked in a quick breath, color rising in his face. He bit his lip, and looked down. Mycroft knew it was in shame, but to anyone else it appeared to simply be shyness. After his brother’s comment, Sherlock behaved himself until it was time for Mycroft to take him up to bed.

“You were really quite good tonight, you know,” Mycroft began as Sherlock shimmied down between the sheets, “I know mummy says you’re too young, but I went ahead and got you that chemistry set you wanted for Christmas.”

Sherlock sat up like a spring. “Really?!” His eyes shone with excitement. Mycroft could see the wheels instantly turning in the young boy’s head, his brain going into overtime planning out all the experiments he would conduct with the new equipment.

Mycroft grinned and nodded. “You deserve it, little brother.”


End file.
